


Belated

by ForAllLove



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo has a cold, Birthday Presents, Bofur is the best, Comfort, Craic-Ship, Cultural Differences, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, I love you Bofur, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Romance, You too Bilbo, oblivious Bofur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForAllLove/pseuds/ForAllLove
Summary: Sometimes all someone needs is to be seen.-or-Bilbo is grumpy in Lake-town. Bofur blunders his way into the solution.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Bofur
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	Belated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ajir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajir/gifts).



> Wayyyyy back in 2013, [Ajir asked for birthday Boffins.](http://latefortevinter.tumblr.com/post/67178993295/whisper-all-i-want-for-birthday-is-boffins-or) I believe I started writing this story on time that year... The whole belated theme has gotten funnier to me every year. I've thought of you every November~ Happy uhhhhhhh 21st birthday again! I hope all of the birthdays since then have been worth having.
> 
> This is, of course... late. (It's tradition at this point.)

Bofur found their blanket-shrouded burglar in one of the bedrooms, far from the Company’s laughter and the fussing of the Lake-men, gathering a pile of pillows. “Bilbo?” he called. “They’ve gotten a feast together. Aren’t you coming down?”

“No, I don’t believe I shall,” said Bilbo. He clambered onto the bed and began to wallop one of the pillows into shape.

Bofur closed the door. It appeared something had Bilbo in a foul mood. Hobbits were funny things like that, all little ups and downs as quick as a wink. Sometimes a bit of cheering-up was all that was wanted. Bofur was especially good at cheering-up. “You’re upset, then.”

Bilbo fluffed up into well-practised hobbity indignation. “Upset?” An unpleasant sort of chuckle. “Lost in that horrid forest going out of our minds. A horde of enormous spiders. Weeks skulking about alone, with an Elf in every corridor and never a proper meal or a good night’s sleep. And then — _and then!_ Half-drowned and battered to pieces, all on my birthday, and not a word of gratitude that wasn’t f-forced—” He sneezed into his handkerchief, hard enough to knock himself over into the pillows. “Just this— this confounded cold. I’m sorry, I— I’m not good company tonight.”

Hearing it so bluntly detailed stung. True, the Company had hardly spared a thought, save ill ones, towards their burglar since their stay with the skin-changer, too caught up in their own discomforts to consider his. Even Bofur had grown short-tempered and snappish in the weeks of wandering and imprisonment. Something in that wretched forest had brought out the worst in them quite without their realising it. So, he’d thought to shake off Mirkwood as he would a nightmare — to forget about it and carry on. There was no sense crying about what couldn’t be helped.

But Hobbits weren’t like Dwarves. Bofur had seen the way Bilbo carried the weight of slights that would roll right off of a dwarf’s thick skin. How long had it been since he’d tried to share in that burden? Not thinking to check might well be worse than contributing to it. He had to be the most at fault if Bilbo felt neglected, and here he’d gone and made things worse with more thoughtlessness when the excuses wore thin.

With his tirade interrupted, the little hobbit looked closer to tears than rage, only a tiny, tired thing swallowed up by his blanket. Bofur touched his sleeve. “It was your birthday?”

“I knew you’d stick on that,” Bilbo huffed, but his glance was fond as he patted Bofur’s hand. “It isn’t the sort of thing you mention when everyone is angry with you.”

Bofur smiled. “I’m not angry. You can mention it to me.” He tugged the blanket more snugly around Bilbo, who was beginning to smile, too.

“Yes, well, I have done, and I’m not convinced you _can_ be.”

“No,” Bofur laughed, “not with you.” Bilbo looked up through his lashes, both teasing and relieved. Something knocked loose in Bofur’s middle and sent the words tumbling over his tongue once more: “Never with you.”

The hobbit’s smile slipped away; his face began to crumple. Although Bofur wasn’t sure how, he’d stuck his boot in his mouth again, hadn’t he? He clutched at the blanket.

Bilbo bowled himself over with another mighty sneeze. Bofur burst out laughing.

“Oh, stop, you,” Bilbo grumbled, swatting him with one hand and casting about for his handkerchief with the other.

Bofur offered him the handkerchief, that raggedy bit of sash from the first day of their journey. “Poor wee thing,” he snickered, although it earned him another glare. “Is it very bad?”

“My head feels fit to burst.” Bilbo sighed, rather wetly, as he searched for a clean spot to wipe his nose.

Quick as a wink, the plan sprang into Bofur’s mind fully-formed and, just as quick, he was tripping over himself on his way out the door. “Wait right there — I’ll see if Oin has something to help!”

* * *

Bilbo was drowsing against the pillows when Bofur returned victoriously armed with a tankard of something foul that Oin had gotten from a nearby apothecary. It seemed an uncomfortable position to sleep in; Bofur hoped the brew would clear his head enough for him to lie down for a proper rest.

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered open as he drew near. “Hello,” he murmured with a sleepy smile, then scrunched up his face to sniffle.

“Here.” Bofur handed over the tankard and perched on the side of the bed to fuss with the blankets. “I hope it tastes better than it smells.”

Although he pulled a face while he drank, Bilbo drained the tankard, hiccoughed, and wriggled his nose. “That’s… actually, it’s not that bad. I feel clearer already.”

“And…” Bofur set the empty tankard aside, pressing another offering into Bilbo’s hands — a large white handkerchief, embroidered in the corners with sprays of yellow flowers. “Happy birthday.”

Bilbo turned the handkerchief over, then back again.

“Belated, to be sure, but I thought you could use some cheering-up, and what’s cheerier than a bit of the comforts of home? Oin was haggling with the healer for ages — you know, I think he just pretends to be deaf when it suits him — and this was the prettiest one they had. The shop across the way, that is.” Bofur wrung his hands. “The little flowers made me think of you, but if you don’t like it, I can… try another one? A different colour?”

When, at last, Bilbo looked up, it was with many feelings in his eyes. Though Bofur could not put a name to all of them, they were not angry, nor were they quite sad. “I’ve treated you dreadfully, haven’t I?”

“Oh, no, Bilbo.” Bofur reached for his hand. “With thirteen great oafs like us, you’ve a right to be cross.”

“…I suppose I do, at that.”

There was the mischievous smile he’d been looking for. Bofur wrapped his hands more fully around Bilbo’s icy fingers. They curled into his palms, with the handkerchief between. “Then you do like it?”

“Yes, of course I do. Although I don’t know how I shall bear to use it.”

“Same as any other — you put your nose into it and blow.”

Tutting, Bilbo pulled his hands away to defend his gift. He ran his thumb over the embroidery delicately, as if the thread petals would jar loose, as if such a pretty thing could come to harm at his touch. “You know, in the Shire, it’s customary to give presents on our birthdays, not get them.”

“Now there’s a nice thought.”

“Of course, there is much passing back and forth of gifts no-one really wants.”

Bofur chuckled at that, then found he could not dim his smile with Bilbo so close, looking wicked and sheepish all at once.

Bilbo’s gaze fluttered down once, twice; he drew himself up then, the way Bofur had seen before he dove into peril after peril despite having more cause to be afraid than any of his companions. It was always a magnificent thing to behold. “I suppose I wouldn’t be a proper Hobbit unless I give you something.” Bilbo braced a hand against Bofur’s knee, leant up, and touched his chapped lips to Bofur’s mouth, soft as butterfly wings.

“Is that what proper Hobbits do?” Bofur asked as soon as there was a space to.

Bilbo snorted. “ _No_ ,” he said as he sat back on his heels, annoyed and indulgent and hesitant. His eyes had closed; when they opened, he kept them focused upon Bofur’s face even while they flickered to and fro. So brave and so lovely, the trepidation and pleading, and the hope that Bofur would… that _Bofur_ —

“Bless me for an old silly,” whispered Bofur, “it’s been you all along, hasn’t it?”

For a moment, Bilbo looked as though he might weep, but instead he smiled and kept smiling, warm and shy. “Yes, I did hope so.”

It was a strange thing, how a single thought could upheave everything else yet settle it back in the much the same order, only with the gaps filled in. Now Bofur’s hands, reaching for Bilbo, knew why they reached; his head, nuzzling onto Bilbo’s shoulder, knew where it would rest; and his heart, keeping time with Bilbo’s like smiths’ hammers forging wondrous works crafted to endure, knew the home for which it had yearned. Bilbo’s arms curled about his neck. Someone hummed in contentment. Too long, Bofur thought, too long, but worth the wait. He spoke, because of course he spoke: “I hope you know, when I pass this back, it’s not that I don’t want it.”

Bilbo laughed and pushed him away with hands in his hair. “I’m rather more concerned about passing you this cold.” He hooked a fingertip in the swooping tail of Bofur’s moustache, then looked surprised by himself, so Bofur caught him up to hold and to kiss and to _love_ — until a surly grumble from Bilbo’s stomach set him to laughing again. Bilbo beamed up at him despite the flushed cheeks and sniffly nose. “I think I could eat now,” he said.

And so they went down to supper after all, hand in hand with the handkerchief between them.

**Author's Note:**

> May your next seven years be more glorious than the last. <3


End file.
